


I've Had Ninety-Nine Lives (But I've Only Lived Once)

by Iolaire02



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Master of Death Harry Potter, The Diary - Horcrux, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21755242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolaire02/pseuds/Iolaire02
Summary: Harry Potter is the Master of Death, with all that the title entails. After his death at Voldemort's hand, he became the ferryman for souls - in the moments before a soul’s death, he is deposited into their body to help them experience their death, and to help them move on.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I don't own Harry Potter.

_Harry Potter_

He is Harry James Potter and seventeen. He is watching memories, assigning tasks, walking through a dark forest. He is Harry Potter and this is his destiny, so he walks to his death, stares it in the face, and at the last second, closes his eyes. He’s seen green far too many times already.

_Regulus Black_

Now his name is Regulus Arcturus Black, son of Orion Arcturus Black and Walburga Black. He is brother to Sirius Orion Black, friend to a house elf. He is eighteen years old. He is the servant of the Dark Lord, branded like cattle. He is in a cave, he is reliving his worst memories, he is making the switch, giving an order, crawling desperately towards water. He faces inferi with cold eyes, and sinks beneath rippling waves in a glassy lake.

_Cedric Diggory_

He is sixteen and a Hufflepuff with loving parents and a girlfriend. He’s in the maze that haunted his nightmares. He’s fighting an acromantula, and arguing about the Triwizard Cup, and he wishes that things could go differently, wishes that Cedric Amos Diggory didn’t have to die, didn’t have to be the first casualty of the start of the war. He wishes many things, wishes he didn’t have to witness death, wishes he didn’t have to guide all these souls to the After. He wishes that he had been smarter, faster, stronger. He wishes that green wasn’t the last color Cedric Diggory ever saw. He wishes that wishes came true.

_Salazar Slytherin_

He is a half-blood, a parselmouth, a Founder. He is a wizard when magic is feared, when practitioners are burned, or drowned, or hanged. They are mostly burned, mostly children, untrained, foolish. He is a Dark wizard, some say. Some opine that Dark is tantamount to evil. He disagrees, is more Gray than Dark. Certainly, he is a dangerous man, both with magic and with blades. He is only as dangerous as he needs to be; he is as ambitious and cunning and self-preserving as his circumstances call for. He is Salazar Slytherin, the most misunderstood Founder, who was rewritten by history, by time. He does not care for the new-borns, it is true, but only because they endanger all magicals. He is Salazar Slytherin, and he’s left Hogwarts behind, with a basilisk in his Chamber – a last line of defense. He’s older, more experienced, and knows both friendship and scorn. He knows that non-magicals are dangerous, is certain – they jump to conclusions, and burn, or shoot. He will not reveal magic to them, will not endanger his world; instead, he will be a Gryffindor for once, he will face a non-magical blade and pretend that he regrets his futile arguments about the dangers of non-magicals. He doesn’t, is what he thinks as he feels the bite of the man’s blade. He thinks it’s harder to die as someone you don’t know, to die a death you know nothing about.

_Severus Snape_

He is Severus Tobias Snape, half-blood, spy. He is the youngest potions master, Head of House of Slytherin. He is a master of deceit, of masks, of lies. He is as talented in potions as he is in the art of misleading others. He tells many lies, most of them to himself, and he pretends he’s not dying a little bit every day. He is Severus Snape, his hated Professor, and he knows how this goes, watched this death himself. He sees the elder wand in Voldemort’s hand, hears the slither of Nagini’s scales against the floor of the Shrieking Shack, feels the change in the air as the snake lunges. He knows how this goes, knows it intimately, knows the death will be slow, painful. He has to let go of the memories, has to say something, has to... He looks into familiar emerald eyes for the last time and feels a choking regret in the pit of his stomach and around his bloody throat.

_Albus Dumbledore_

Now he is a patchwork quilt of flaws and regrets and mistakes, barely held together by what he tells himself is love. He is a master manipulator, a remorseful betrayer. He is the elder brother of two, now one, and he’s not quite sure – has never been certain – who deserves the blame. He is regretful of most things, a great believer in second, third, fourth chances. He is delirious from potion, weak from fire, wandless and facing a scared little boy. He relates with Draco Malfoy on some level, believes in offering and taking opportunities; he offers, must offer – there is no other way for this to go. He offers hope and his death arrives in a blur of black and shadow and a nearly believable sneer. He tells himself it is better this way, better to have a quick and painless death than a cursed one. He tells himself that this plan is the best option, and he almost believes it. He is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Light Lord, grand chess master. He is Albus Dumbledore, who has always flown so high, so far above everyone else; now, he is no longer flying – instead he is falling, gracefully, falling towards his death, towards his next great adventure. He is dead before he hits the ground

_Sirius Black_

_Not guilty_ are the words that have echoed in his head for years, as he woke from nightmares only to be greeted by soul-sucking monsters. He is not guilty, not guilty, not guilty. He feels as though he is, a little bit; he feels like he’s condemned so many people to death or insanity or slavery. He is not guilty for his upbringing, certainly. What could he have done to be born into an insane family with an apathetic father and a cruel mother and distant relatives? He was responsible for the outcome of his Sorting: Gryffindor – he’d always been the white sheep of the family, too strongly based in morals, disdainful of anything that reminded him of his accursed family. He doesn’t know if he’s responsible for his brother’s decisions, but if he’d _taken him along_ , if he’d not abandoned him, maybe… but there was – is – nothing he can do to change the past. He wants desperately to say he’s not guilty, but he _is_ , for certain things. He regrets them all, regrets his mistakes and blunders and prejudices. He regrets that he never grew up properly, never matured, but the circumstances cannot be altered. So he taunts Bellatrix and falls backwards laughing, falls backwards looking at the heartbreak on his face from so many years ago.

_Nymphadora Tonks_

He is Nymphadora Andromeda Tonks, and honestly, _what_ was Andy thinking when she named her child? But he is Tonks and his muggle-born father is dead and his mother is heartbroken and he is charging into battle, fighting back to back with Remus. He has a child less than a year old waiting for him, waiting for Remus to come home. There is a child anticipating a return that will never happen, and in that moment, he cannot forgive Nymphadora Tonks or Remus Lupin because they were fighting, they knew they might die and orphan their newborn baby. Why had they taken the risk of orphaning their child? Remus is hit moments before him, his body is likely cold before the cutting curse lands.

_Lily Potter_

He is the mother of himself, is married to his father, and this is his worst memory. There is not much of a difference between this perspective and his own. There is the same shout from his husband-father, the same mantra, _step aside, step aside, step aside_ , though it’s not really a mantra, the same deadly flash of green. It is different though, because he can feel love and fear, and he can see himself, and complicated rune arrays. The laugh is still the same. He wonders if his mother has any idea what happens to him after her death; does she know that he will be willing to die at the age of seventeen? He is Lily Evans Potter, muggle-born witch, sister to Petunia Evans Dursley. He is Lily Potter, with a talent for charms and potions, he’s got dark red hair and emerald eyes, and he’s married to a one time enemy. He’s Lily Potter, and there was a prophecy, and a child, and a secret, and betrayed trust. He’s Lily Potter and he’s not perfect, and he’s not a hero, and she’s bitter and unforgiving and cold, and she’s light and happiness and flaming warmth. He’s Lily Potter, and this death is not unique – that was his life, not his death. His death is unremarkable, especially now, and it’s really just an entire life swallowed by a flash of green.

_Fred Weasley_

He is Frederick Fabian Weasley, now, and he’s got two ears and a twin with only one. He’s got six siblings and a grandma and a sister-in-law, and he loves pranking. He’s only twenty one and he’s laughing at Percy. He’s fighting when the wall collapses on him and it’s painful but it’s quick. One minute, his mum’s clock reads mortal peril and the next, his hand has fallen to the ground. Fred Weasley is many things: he’s a half of a whole, part of a huge family, an inventor, a businessman; he’s a beater, and a big brother, and a little brother, and a prankster, but this is no prank, and he is dead, dead, dead.

_Gideon Prewett_

He dies fighting, dies with his brother, dies and leaves his sister behind and devastated and alone. He’s not quite sure what loneliness is, has never been alone from the time he was conceived till his death. There’s another part of him that has always been alone, has never known anything but emptiness and isolation. He’s Gideon Prewett, and he’s got a brother named Fabian and a sister called Molly. He’s got red hair and freckles and a penchant for pranking. He is unremarkable in most things, but he takes out several Death Eaters before he falls. For a split second he feels strangling loneliness, but it’s nothing new, nothing he hasn’t experienced every day of his life.

_Charity Burbage_

Unremarkable is perhaps the best description for Charity Burbage. She is a pureblood teaching outdated Muggle Studies, and that is her only crime. He joins her in Malfoy Manor, and knows that he will see yet another flash of green coming from a wand versed in Legilimency and lies. He knows that after, the body will be devoured by Nagini, knows that there is a witness dragged through dreams. He knows that Charity Burbage will not return to Hogwarts, and he knows that her only crime was for being too interested in Muggles, her crime was being a blood-traitor according to Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

_Merope Gaunt_

He’s young and exhausted and devastated. He’s Merope Gaunt, and he’s bloody and broken, this body has just given painful birth, and what little magic it had is gone now. He knows he needs to do something important before this body dies, knows he has to name the baby, name his future nemesis, and he kind of understands the irony of it. He can’t just kill the baby, too much lies in the balance for that to be an option, but he understands where the name came from, understands that he gave the child a name it would hate on purpose. He forces out the words just before Merope Gaunt’s life force fades away. “His name will be Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle.” He feels like he’s gotten revenge, now.

_Tom Riddle_

He is Tom Marvolo Riddle, half-blood bastard of a near-squib and a Muggle. He is unwanted, unloved, so he gives them a reason to fear and hate and he relishes in it. He’s not yet eleven when he tortures children from the orphanage, and he first kills at sixteen. He rips apart his soul in a bid for immortality, and he is defied time and time again by one boy. They say that when one truly knows their enemy, when one loves them, that is when one can defeat them. He doesn’t think that statement is true – it is more that when one _is_ their enemy they finally love them. He is his enemy before his death, and it’s in this moment that he really gets to know Tom Riddle. When he becomes Voldemort for just a wrinkle in time, he learns his fears and loves, he knows Tom better than Voldemort knows himself. He’s gotten to know all these people, in their last moments. He’s been so many people already, and he knows he’ll be many, many more. He is Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, You-Know-Who, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and he kills himself. He allows himself to be provoked, and he shouts out a spell he’d hoped to never utter. He thinks it fitting that his own spell is what kills him, but he can’t help feeling a sort of pity for this broken piece of almost human; he almost loves the shattered creature, and maybe that’s what really, finally killed him in the same color that started his journey.

_Ariana Dumbledore_

Ariana Kendra Dumbledore is his new name; he’s an obscurus, he’s fourteen, and he’s not really sure how this death goes. He has a vague notion, but everything he knows about the scandal is limited to rumors, and he knows better than to put faith in those. There is screaming all around him, and flashing light, and her magic is out of control, it wants out, it wants to destroy, it wants to be like it was when Kendra died. He wonders what her death was like, though he knows he’ll find out eventually. The flashing lights have turned to the green of his mother’s eyes, and sickly scarlet: the spells have turned to death and pain. There are three voices, and they grow louder, they rise in tandem, and it is the heavily accented voice that shouts the spell, that growls out enough hate to be the last thing he sees before everything shifts.

_Bellatrix Lestrange_

He is Bellatrix Druella Lestrange, formerly Black. He’s veritably insane, loyal to a fault, much more violent and bloodthirsty than necessary. He has two sisters, both younger, both better. He already knows how this goes, saw Bellatrix’s death himself. He knows there will be a curse leaving his wand in a vicious duel before he crumpled to the ground, before he disappears. He knows how it happens, and yet when it does, when he is hit, when he - she - dies, it is unexpected.

_Myrtle Warren_

He is Myrtle Warren and he’s crying in the second floor bathroom, is steps away from the Chamber of Secrets. He’s a little girl who isn’t particularly strong, isn’t brave or sly or loyal. He’s a little girl who isn’t smart enough to ask for help, who will be more set on revenge than peace. He’s a little girl who knows the circumstances of her death, and he’ll walk toward it, and stare it in the eye. And then he’ll let go because he can’t make choices for a bitter little girl, and he’ll need her help in the future.

_Dobby_

He is a free elf, and it will be written on his gravestone and weathered by tears and salt and wind. He belonged to the Malfoy family, and issued a warning. He was freed and paid and happy and helpful. He is Dobby, a free elf, a good friend, a hero. He dies with a knife between his ribs and his name on his lips.

_Gellert Grindelwald_

He is many things - he is a wizard, he is better than Muggles, he is the type of man who can justify anything with the phrase _for the Greater Good_ . He is cruel and demanding and exacting and ruthless, and all his skill and ambition has only gotten him here: in his own castle, in a cell he used for war prisoners. It has been decades since anyone - since Albus - came to see him, and he hasn’t spoken in nearly as long. It is a shock to be forced awake to see a serpentine creature reeking in Black Magic, and his relentless questioning about the Elder Wand is unnerving. Gellert Grindelwald is many things, and good isn’t one of them, no matter that he claimed it was, no matter that the Greater Good was the only thing that was important to him. So he is not good, but here and now he decides he will not tell the monster before him where the wand was last. He is Gellert Grindelwald and he respects - they both do - Dumbledore too much to tell. And so he sits in silence, grits his atrophying teeth against the pain, and almost smiles at the frustrated flash of green. 

_Harry Potter_

He is himself again, with snowy hair and leathery skin and blurry vision. He is surrounded by his family, by everyone he hasn’t helped along, yet. He is Harry James Potter in the same way he was Regulus Black and Severus Snape; he is these people for a few moments in time. He’s Harry Potter and though this body was where he experienced his first death, it will not be his last. He is many things, has been for nearly as long as he can remember. He is mortal and immortal. He is strong and weak, and intelligent and not. He is invincible and terrifyingly fragile. He is last moments and entire lives. He is death, and the start of new life, and perhaps most importantly, he first and foremost Harry Potter, the boy in the cupboard, the wizard, the Savior and the Boy-Who-Lived and the Chosen One. He is a hero, and a painfully average, flawed boy who grew up without love or happiness, or even the slightest notion of friendship. He is the boy who jumped in head first, without thinking, without asking for help besides a superficial plea. And so, he is a hero and a martyr who walked to his own death. When it touched him, he woke up and went in two directions. He became last moments, and he lived out his life until he lived out the lives of others.

_The Diary_

He is the diary, in its final moments, and as much as he hates it, he must taunt, must give cruel orders, must laugh at his old body’s misfortune. He’s done this already, knows he can do it because it’s how this works; nothing that happened in the past can change. He silently thanks the phoenix, and cheers on his young body. He learns that, even for a Horcrux, even for a diary, basilisk venom is painful.


	2. Chapter 2

_Helena Ravenclaw_

He is guiding her to a crossroads. He has died for her, but it is her turn to make a choice. She looks at him, her soul glowing translucent, curiosity in her eyes.

“Why do you do this? Why do you take our deaths from us?” She asks him these questions without judgement; she does not mind his experiencing death for her.

He considers his answer. For all the questions he has been asked, he has never been asked in quite this way.

“I have no choice,” he replies, and the admission is heavy. It is the truth, though. He was forced into this position by chance, by fate - he doubts he will ever know who to blame.

They arrive at Helena’s crossroads, and she looks at them in consternation before turning to him. He cannot make this choice for her, cannot choose her path.

“What are my choices?” she asks quietly, as though she cannot feel the regret that tethers her to the mortal plane. And perhaps she cannot; he never spoke to her about her choice, the first time he knew her, and it is not everyone who feels that regret so keenly that they cannot move on. 

Just like the living, the dead are complex and unique, he knows this, and yet they always manage to surprise him; he has been doing this for millions of deaths, and they all blur together. Even in his life, the dead were rarely memorable, and dying for them hasn’t changed that.

“You can move on,” he says, “or you can return to the world as a ghost.”

She looks at him. Asks, “What do you think I should choose?”

“I cannot make your choice for you,” he replies. “I have taken your death from you, I will not take this from you as well.”

He already knows what she will choose, knows that her presence is important in the future.

“If I return, will I see my mother again?”

“You will see her again no matter what you choose.”

“I will go back, then. I would like to see her again before you die for her.”

He leads her down the road that leads back. The end of it glows white. 

“They always say not to walk towards the light,” Helena muses.

“The life of a ghost can be lonely,” Harry agrees, “most would not wish such an existence on anyone.”

Helena steps towards the light. “Thank you,” she says, “for taking my death for me.” And then she steps into it.

_Frank Bryce_

“This isn’t Heaven. You aren’t God,” says the Muggle.

“No,” Harry agrees.

“But I’m dead, right? That creature killed me with the green spotlight?”

“Yes. You are dead. Voldemort killed you. I’m sorry that your introduction to magic was in the form of death. It can be quite beautiful.”

He doesn’t expect anything to come of it, doesn’t expect Frank’s curiosity.

“Show me.”

Harry hesitates. This man is a Muggle, that much is true, but Frank is dead and can’t hurt him. He has nothing to be afraid of; the man standing in front of him is not Vernon, and this is what convinces him to flick his fingers, whispering “ _Expecto Patronum_ ” under his breath.

Prongs blossoms into being, pearlescent and elegant. Frank looks at the stag in awe, stroking its flank. Prongs’ presence emits warmth, and Harry feels happy for the first time since he closed his eyes against the green that lit a forest.

“Thank you,” Frank says.

“No.” Harry returns. “Thank you. I didn’t know I needed that.”

He is an immortal who dies constantly. He is simultaneously old and young. He is a mess of contradictions, and yet this Muggle has just taught him something new. It is an interesting feeling, and it has been ages since anything has really broken up his mindless tasks.

It has been longer than he can remember since he has done anything other than die and lead the dead.

“Come, follow me,” Harry suggests, and Frank follows him unquestioningly. Prongs walks beside Harry, head raised, and Harry smooths his fingers down the stag’s side as they make their way through the fog that surrounds them.

The walk is long, and Frank eventually breaks the silence.

“Do you die for everyone?”

“I do.”

“How did the Riddles die?”

“The Riddles?”

“They were the family that lived in the Manor that I took care of. Everyone in town thought I killed them.”

“Ah. They were killed in the same way as you. Same person, too.”

“Who?”

“Voldemort. Tom Riddle Junior. Son of Tom Senior and Merope Gaunt.”

“Why did he kill his family?” Frank asks, as though he can’t imagine wanting to kill family members.

Harry thinks that maybe he can’t imagine it. Frank had a loving family, after all, was devastated when they died. He wonders what it’s like, to love and be loved unconditionally. He thinks that he could find out, if he wanted, thinks that he could visit his mother and father in their afterlife.

But there’s still a part of him that doesn’t think he deserves it.

“They didn’t want him,” Harry replies heavily, “and so he decided that he didn’t want them, either. Tom never knew love, not the way other people do, and he tore himself apart because of it.”

“That doesn’t excuse it.”

“No. His family issues don’t excuse his actions. They don’t make his choices right, but Tom was a broken human being. He literally destroyed himself because of them. His actions weren’t right, but neither were theirs.”

Frank looks pensive. “They didn’t want him?”

“No.” Harry agrees, and his heart breaks a little when he does.

The walk in silence the rest of the way, until they reach a door that juts up from the fog. Harry opens it, standing aside for Frank to enter ahead of him.

“This is like a waiting room.” Harry explains. “I need you to do something for me in a little while. You’ll know when it happens, and when it’s over, I’ll be back to take you to your afterlife.”

“I’ll be right here,” Frank replies, a smile breaking across his weathered face. “Thank you for showing me your stag.”

“His name is Prongs,” Harry says, “and you’re welcome. I’ll see you soon.”

_Ron Weasley_

Ron raises his eyebrows in astonishment when they finally emerge into the white fog that resembles a Quidditch Pitch.

“Harry, mate, you’re looking pretty youthful there. Care to share?”

Harry smiles ruefully. “I split when I was in the Forest. Since then, I’ve been dying for people.”

“Urgh. How long has that been going on? Didn’t it stop when you died?”

“Feels like it’s been going on since time began. And no, it didn’t.”

“That sucks,” Ron says succinctly. “What’s with the Quidditch Pitch?”

“That’s your doing. The in-between conforms to the dead. For some it’s a reflection of their home. For others, it’s Hogwarts, or their place of work. For me it’s King’s Cross.”

“So what happens now?”

“Now, you follow me to your afterlife. Fred will be pleased to see you. He tells me he’s been dying for someone new to prank. Pun intended.”

Ron’s afterlife looks distinctly like the Burrow, down to the lopsided rooms and the smell of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking wafting towards them from the kitchen. Ron’s family waits for him at the front door, greeting him enthusiastically. 

Harry can hear Mrs. Weasley puttering about in the kitchen, and knows the instant the clock informs her of Ron’s arrival; her shriek of “Ronnie’s home!” drifts from the kitchen seconds before she wraps her son in a warm hug.

Harry smiles faintly, before turning and walking away.

_Petunia Dursley_

He can see the regret in his Aunt’s eyes the moment she looks at him.

“I’m sorry.” she says, “I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I should have loved you.”

“You should have tried,” he agrees, “but I accept your apology, and I forgive you.”

Her eyes mist, and he can’t watch her cry, so he turns his face away from her, looks around the living room of the house on Privet Drive. He is distinctly uncomfortable in this in-between of Petunia’s.

“Let’s go,” he says abruptly. “Uncle Vernon and Dudley are waiting for you.”

She follows him in silence, as though she can tell conversation from her will not be accepted. Harry is thankful that she leaves him to his thoughts. He has had an eternity to remember his childhood, and while he forgives his Aunt and Uncle for their resentment and resulting actions, while he loves them, he does not particularly like them.

He drops Petunia off in her afterlife, and he doesn’t stay to watch her reunion with Vernon and Dudley. He has other people to die for.


	3. Chapter 3

_Lavender Brown_

“This is what you need to do, Lavender.” Harry says once time stops moving around them. “You have to let go. You have to let me take over for you.”

Lavender glares defiantly at him; she may have been interested in frills and tea leaves when he knew her, but she was Sorted into Gryffindor for a reason.

“No. This is my life, not yours. I’m not letting you live my life for me.”

“I won’t be living your life,” he replies quietly. “I’ll be dying your death. Let me do this, Lav. This isn’t something you need to experience. Please.”

“I’m going to die?” she asks, and it’s quiet and sad and hopeless; her voice is small the way it never was when they were alive. Something bitter creeps up Harry’s throat when he answers.

“Yes. You’re going to die, and it’s an awful death. This is what I’m meant to do, Lavender. I’m meant to die for people. I’m meant to die for you. Please let me do this for you.”

Lavender presses her lips together, like she’s fighting back a sob. She looks up at him, her eyes glittering with tears, her chin trembling.

“I don’t want to die.”

“ _You_ don’t have to. I’ll do it for you. It’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“You always believed that, didn’t you?” she sighs. “You always thought you had to sacrifice yourself for everyone else. You’re still doing it.”

“I was raised to die for everyone. I did die for everyone, and I’m still doing it.”

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough? Don’t you think you’ve sacrificed enough? You literally die for people; I can’t ask you to do that for me.”

This isn’t the girl he met when he was eleven. This isn’t the girl who dated Ron. She is far more insightful than he’s ever given her credit for, and he’s a bit surprised.

She must see something in his expression, because she smiles sadly, her eyes dark. “This past year has changed me, Harry. It’s changed everyone. I’m not the girl you used to know. I’ve been through far too much to be the same innocent little girl that climbed onto the Hogwarts Express years ago.”

He swallows. “I think I’m getting that. It never occurred to me that other people have suffered just as much as I have. Some have suffered more.”

“No one has suffered more than you, Harry. No one else dies for people, you know? You’ve suffered enough already. I won’t let you do this for me. I know that it’s what you’re supposed to do, but I won’t let you do it.”

“Lavender -” Harry begins, but she cuts him off.

“No, Harry. I’m not letting you die for me. You’ve already died for everyone else. Besides, I’ve been having other people do things for me all my life. This is something I need to do for myself. And I’ll see you on the other side, right?”

“Yes. I’ll be waiting.”

It’s strange, watching her die again. He’s never had someone refuse his offer to die for them. It’s strange to not be the one dying, and he feels like he owes it to her to not look away. He’s not taking her death for her, so he watches her fall, watches Greyback leap. No one else is watching, not really, so he will. When she finally stops moving, Harry pulls her from her body, guiding her towards the fog of the in-between.

The fog clears, and Harry looks around himself. Lavender’s in-between looks remarkably like the boys’ dorm in Gryffindor tower. The only difference he can see is in the posters on the walls; rather than boasting Manchester United, these posters have boy-bands inked onto them.

“Is this what the girls’ dorm looks like? I expected it to be frillier.”

Lavender looks almost offended. “Frills have been out of fashion for years, Harry. But yes. This is the Gryffindor girls’ dorm. Or, this is what it used to look like, before Snape and the Carrows took over. Before the world collapsed.”

There’s something in her voice that makes Harry turn his head to look at her. Her face is etched with sorrow. It’s hard for him to reconcile the expression with the ones that crossed her face so long ago.

“When I said people have been doing everything for me for my entire life, I wasn’t kidding. Parvati helped me keep my grades up. Ron got me popularity when we dated in sixth year. My parents gave me anything and everything I asked for. I never had to lift a finger.

“And then Dumbledore died, and I was fighting for my life.” She laughs bitterly. “You don’t know what the Carrows had us do, Harry. It was awful. I hated it. The Cruciatus hurts, you know. But it hurts more to cast it. And I did, Harry. I cast that awful curse because I didn’t want to die. I let the Carrows back me into a corner. It was dark there, and cold. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone as much as I hated myself for letting them _make_ me hurt people.

“I hurt _children_. They were just kids, and I hurt them because I didn’t want to die. What kind of person does that make me?” She pauses briefly, but continues speaking, as though she doesn’t expect an answer.

“I learned to hate having my choices made for me. And then you came along, telling me it was time to die. Don’t you see, Harry? I needed to do something for myself for once. I needed to do something for someone else.” 

He can’t think of anything to say to that. Lavender has grown a lot since he last spoke to her. He has never really spoken to her though; they only ever spoke of superficial things back before he went hunting for Horcruxes.

“I’m sorry I never took the time to get to know you better. You’re more human than I ever realized.”

She smiles sadly at him. “Missed opportunities, huh? I seem to have collected quite a lot of them in my life. Now, which direction are we heading?”

_Colin Creevey_

“Colin,” Harry greets the boy. “You should have stayed in the castle.”

“Maybe,” Colin replies noncommittally. “Maybe not. We Gryffindors have a knack for getting into trouble. You would know _that_ better than anyone, though.” he adds slyly.

Harry cracks a smile. “You’re a cheeky brat, Colin. I’ve missed you.”

Colin looks confused. Harry supposes that he would; after all, it has been less than twenty minutes since Colin last saw him. For Harry, though, it feels like an eternity has passed. Maybe it has. Time loses its meaning in the in-between, and it stops completely in death.

“You’ve only got a few moments left.” Harry informs the sixteen-year-old.

“I’ve only got a few - I’m going to die tonight?”

Harry nods.

“So are you here to take me to Heaven? Afterwards?”

“Yes and no,” Harry replies. “I’m here to die for you. And then we will go to your afterlife.”

“Do you know how I die?”

“No, but I know that Neville and Oliver will carry you back to the Great Hall.”

Colin swallows. “And there’s nothing I can do to prevent my death?”

“No.” he replies honestly. “At least, if there is a way, I don’t know of it. Even soul-containers aren’t a guarantee. It’s best to let everything run its course, Colin.”

“I don’t… You said you were here to die for me?”

“Yes. I die for you, so that you don’t have to endure it. And then I will join you in the in-between.”

“The in-between?”

“A fog between life and death. It’s where you will wait, while your body dies.”

“Okay. Okay.” Colin tells himself. He nods firmly, draws himself up, so that his shoulders are straight, his jaw set. “I’m ready.”

Harry looks him in the eye. “No one is ever ready to die, Colin, not even the people who kill themselves. It’s okay that you’re not ready.”

“I’m scared,” Colin admits.

“I was, too. Fear is natural; we’re all afraid of what we don’t know.”

“You’re never afraid,” Colin denies.

“I was always afraid,” Harry counters. “But I was also a Gryffindor; we are the brave ones. We’re afraid of everything, but we face it head-on. We don’t show the others our fear. It is the only thing that reminds us of our humanity.”

Colin considers Harry’s words for a moment. He turns and walks toward the white fog that’s begun creeping towards them. He reaches its edge, and turns to face Harry as it wraps around his ankles.

“Will Dennis be alright? Without me?”

“Eventually.”

That seems to be good enough for Colin, for he raises his hand in farewell. Harry raises his in return, and then the fog swallows them both.

Harry drops into Colin’s body, and lets it carry him to its death.

The fog swallows him again, and when Harry opens his eyes, he finds Colin waiting patiently for him.

“Did it hurt?”

Harry almost smiles, thinking of something Sirius told him long ago. “It was like falling asleep. Killing Curse,” he clarifies when Colin looks at him in question.

“I’m glad it didn’t hurt. I don’t like pain, and especially not after this last year. They targeted me; Muggle-born, you know?”

“It’s dangerous being a Muggle-born in this world,” Harry agrees. “Hermione always said it came with a lot of baggage, a sort of heaviness, a knowledge that you’d never quite fit in.”

“That’s right. I always forget that Hermione is like me. Muggle-born, I mean. She just seems so comfortable here, and she knows so much about this world that you overlook her birth.”

“I don’t think you overlook it. It’s just that you and I - everyone who grew up in the Muggle world - don’t really think about things like blood. It’s not important in the grand scheme of things because this world has magic, you know? But the others, the Pure-bloods? For some of them, blood is the only thing they see.

“There’s a difference between us and them, Colin. We’ve grown up in a world where prejudice has been fought for decades. We grew up in a world that’s finally realized that people are people. They haven’t. For Pure-bloods, the prejudice is ingrained, almost. No one’s really been fighting it, and so it continues to fester.

“Eventually,” he concludes, “it turns into war.”

Colin looks at him consideringly. “I never thought of that. To me, the wizarding world was always the same as the rest of the world, just with magic added in. But that’s not true at all, is it? They’re completely different, aren’t they? The people are different, the culture is different, even the food is different, sometimes.”

“You’re getting it,” Harry agrees. “There is the Muggle World and the Wizarding World, and they are two seperate worlds. We do them and their people a disservice when we think of them as one and the same, when we think of them as extensions of each other.”

“Is that why they dislike Muggle-borns? Because we think that we are still in the world we were born into?”

“It’s certainly part of it.”

“How did you come to these conclusions?”

Harry smiles faintly. “I think I get to know people pretty well while escort them to the After. They tell me things. I talk to them, like I’m doing now, with you, and they talk back. I’ve learned a few things, here and there.”

“Ah. That makes sense, I suppose. Thank you for bringing me here, for helping.”

“You’re welcome, Colin. I’ll see you again soon.”

_Draco Malfoy_

“Potter.”

“Malfoy. Welcome to the in-between.”

“So I’m dead?”

“As a doornail.”

“Did I die in my sleep?”

“You did. It was one of the more peaceful deaths I’ve experienced.”

“That you’ve experienced? How many deaths have you experienced?”

“All of them. Or, I will experience them all eventually. Hazard of being Master of Death, unfortunately.”

“Master of Death? Potter that’s just a fairy-tale.”

“I thought so, too. And here I am, mastering death. I’ve gotten quite good at dying, you see. It comes naturally.”

Malfoy sneers in disdain. “How very like you to make uncouth jokes about death, of all things.”

Harry sighs tiredly. “Malfoy. Joking about the countless deaths I have experienced - that I have yet to experience - makes it bearable. I’m sorry you can’t appreciate my sense of humor. Luckily, you won’t have to put up with me for long. I’m just here to drop you off in your After.”

“Well, take me there; I don’t want to spend any more time with you than is absolutely necessary.”

“Very well, Malfoy.”

Harry leads Draco through the fog, to the elegant Manor of his After. Narcissa and Lucius are waiting for their son at the gates, and Draco approaches them. Harry stops several yards away from the gate, eyes the peacocks warily - they have attempted to attack him before - and exchanges a respectful nod with Narcissa.

“By the way, Draco,” Harry shouts over his shoulder as he walks away, “I forgive you for being an ungrateful prick.”

He only turns back around after he’s seen the look of indignation cross Malfoy’s face.


End file.
